Here Without You
by carryon-vs
Summary: Episode 1.05. Every night Sam dies. Cold or hot, it doesn’t matter; it always ends the same way – with Dean facing his fears, feeling the pain over and over again. And every day the boy is there, waiting for his chance to get out... and get even.
1. Chapter 1

Carry On...a Supernatural Virtual Season

Episode 5: Here Without You

Authors: Ghost and Mikiya

Disclaimer: We don't own Supernatural or it's characters, basically any characters familiar from the show. They are properties of the WB, CW and Eric Kripke.

A/N: Carry On...A Supernatural Virtual Season picks up at the end of All Hell Breaks Loose part one and then ventures on with a what if scenario that takes the Winchester brothers through heaven and hell while fighting to save the remnants of their splintered family. See our bio page for more information.

Episode Summary: Every night Sam dies. Cold or hot, it doesn't matter; it always ends the same way – with Dean facing his fears, feeling the pain over and over again, the loss of everything. And every day the boy is there, waiting for his chance to get out... and get even.

PART ONE

It was cold. It was dark. It was wet.

_They_ were wet. And tired.

Sam briefly met his eyes across the roof of the Impala, giving him a wry grin before he shook his head, yet again, to get his dripping bangs out of his eyes. He growled something under his breath which Dean couldn't make out but wasn't hard to guess. And yes, Dean would have had some nice ideas how they could have spent this evening instead of checking the damned place out.

He cast a brief glance back at the old, rotted out building behind them. Just like them, it had surely seen better days; if Dean squinted really hard, he could almost see the proud factory it must have been decades ago. But now, it was just old and wasted.

And cursed.

Or so he thought. The very moment he and Sam got out of the car, it had started raining, drenching the two of them almost instantly. And if that had not been bad enough, Dean had almost slipped three times.

Though that was nothing against what his brother had managed to accomplish; as usual Sam had to take everything just that one step further. Literally. A surprised yelp and Dean had turned in time to see his brother stumble down the stairs inside the building, his abrupt downward motion stopped finally by the wall opposite the stairs. Dean's resulting chuckle had earned him a smack on the back of his head, which he hadn't even tried to dodge.

But, despite a thorough search, they hadn't been able to find anything but an abandoned, rundown ex-factory with slippery stairs. That and the fact that Sam seemed to have picked up some pretty impressive curse words along the way. Not that he needed them.

Sam tossed his sawed-off into the trunk with an audible clunk, pulling Dean out of his thoughts. He blinked and looked over at his brother. "We keep running around like chickens with our heads cut off here, Sammy. Whatever's going on, I don't think it's here."

Sam was busy shrugging out of his sodden jacket and stopped, turning a little to frown at Dean, then at the ruins behind them. "You're probably right," he admitted after a moment, "but three disappearances in the last five years? And five cases of sudden onset schizophrenia? Westlake, Indiana just isn't big enough for that to be a coincidence. And this building was the only thing all of them had in common."

Dean shrugged, tossing his own weapons into the trunk before he shut it. "We've been all over this place, Sam. Did you see anything that whispered that our kind of crap was up? Because I didn't. And I'm not interested in looking again. I'm cold and I really wanna spent the rest of this night anywhere but here."

Sam scowled at him, then stalked to the passenger's door. "Yeah, _you_ are cold, cause it was you who almost drowned in there…"

He was back to growling under his breath but this time, Dean heard him and couldn't suppress a teasing chuckle. "Not my fault your big feet always get in the way. And you can't drown in a puddle! Oh, well, maybe _you_ can, but I got you out before it was too late. Quit whining!"

Sam sputtered at that. "All I remember is you laughing your head off, jerk!" His scowl darkened when Dean just grinned at him, then walked to the driver's door and cast a last look at the building. "We need another plan for this."

Dean hesitated as he watched his brother look back at the building, the humor quickly fading from his eyes. He could tell that Sam was… _sensing_ something, the way his little psychic always did, that something had apparently tickled his spider senses. Though from the irritated frown, Dean could tell his brother was just as clueless as he was as to what or why.

Well, whatever. They were getting out of there for now, getting dry and having a beer in front of the TV. In that order.

Damn, he was tired.

-o-

_He watched how the wounded one stood next to the car. When the man had turned so suddenly he had almost feared he had been spotted, that his presence had become known._

_The wounded one was tall, taller than most people he had ever seen. From where he was lurking by the rear end of the vehicle, the man almost looked like a giant from one of the stories he had heard. Maybe he was one; maybe the man was just as strong and vicious as they were. _

_Maybe…_

_He was about to find out._

_He waited until the man had turned back to the car, watched how he opened the door and prepared to get inside._

_And then, he jumped._

-o-

Dean was about to get into the car when Sam suddenly staggered forward and gave a surprised grunt. He looked over at his brother, narrowing his eyes slightly. "You okay?"

Sam turned to look behind him. "It felt like something shoved me."

His weariness forgotten almost instantly, Dean pulled out his EMF, pointing it in Sam's direction. He frowned at the small screen. "It's picking up on EMF, but we are standing in front of an old factory. The readings are all over the place." He put the device down and gave Sam a shrug. "It's pretty useless."

Sam seemed distracted, turning to look once again at the building. "Something is here…" he observed quietly and Dean followed his gaze, letting his own eyes once again scan the lot.

Nothing moved. Nothing happened.

They were only getting wetter.

Dean sighed. "Look, we're both tired, frustrated and drenched. Let's call it for tonight and hit the books in the morning. See if we can get a better idea of what the hell is going on here." He waited for a moment while Sam was still staring at the factory. "Come on, you drowned rat, let's get out of this clothes and get some sleep, okay? Dude, I'm tired…"

Sam finally turned to him and nodded absentmindedly, brushing his dripping bangs out of his eyes.

"Yeah, you're right, let's hit it. I'm freezing…"

Both of them cast a last look at the building and with the usual warning for Sam not to get mud on the upholstery, they got into the Impala and left.

-o-

_He is lost._

_It is so dark around him he cannot see his hands in front of his face. He is alone, he knows that; there is nobody there but him. He is scared, can feel his heart beat so hard in his chest it almost hurts. He cannot draw his breath fast enough to keep up with his body's demands and it terrifies him._

_He cannot escape. _

_And suddenly he can see._

_Walls, everywhere he looks. Everywhere around him there are walls and they are coming closer, they are closing in on him. They are changing, too. First they are just dark, then they become clapboard, then brick. _

_He cannot breathe anymore. His frantic gasps for air don't get enough oxygen into his starving lungs and he finds himself starting to hyperventilate. His wide, desperate eyes roam the small space he is trapped in and suddenly his feet are cold. Ice cold. He looks down and finds the broken cement he is huddling on changing as well, watches in disbelief as it turns into cold, wet mud. He is barefoot, his shoes missing and he wonders who took them._

_He is so alone. He doesn't want to be here. It is too cold, too lonely._

_Dangerous._

_He wants to leave, he needs to find (himherhim), he _needs_ to find them, that is all there is, all he can think about. He isn't supposed to be alone. He isn't supposed to feel scared But he _is_ alone and he is scared and it's dark and it hurts so much and he can't breathe, there's no air left, the walls are moving and—_

"Help me, DEAN!"

Sam jerked upright, panting desperately for air. He felt so cold his teeth instantly started chattering. Before he could even open his eyes, he groaned in pain, when he suddenly became aware of an excruciating throbbing in his back. He dimly sensed Dean snapping awake in the bed next to him and by the time his eyes had adjusted to the darkness of their motel room he could see his brother's outline in front of him.

There was a click and the bedside lamp flickered to life, illuminating their room with light that was just too bright. He groaned and brought his hands up, shielding his eyes. The sharp pain in his back was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Sam?" Dean's voice sounded worried and sleepy at the same time and Sam took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. "Sam, you okay?"

He found his voice and croaked out, "It's okay, just a dream. Sorry…" He slowly lowered his hands and blinked rapidly in the still blinding light.

Dean was watching him with a worried frown, the hand still holding the knife he usually kept under his pillow slowly dropping down to the blanket. "A dream? Or a _dream_?" he asked wearily.

Sam shook his head, finally able to breathe easier and he reached up to rub his arms, relaxing when warmth slowly started to creep back into his limbs. Why was he so cold?

Dean was still staring at him, eyebrows raised. Sam blinked, then shook his head again. "Just… just a bad dream… I'm really sorry. Go back to sleep."

Dean looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and rolled over, muttering something about gags and little brothers under his breath. Sam watched Dean's breath slowly even out as he fell asleep again.

He lay in the darkness for a long time, trying to make sense of his dream, the weird feeling that didn't want to go away. Something was wrong, something Sam just couldn't put his finger on. The more he thought about it, the less he could figure it out.

When a quick glance at the alarm clock told him he had spent the better part of the night awake, he knew he would be getting no more sleep. Instead, he decided to spend his time doing what he did best. And before that he would grab a quick shower, the nightmare… or whatever it had been had left him covered in a cold sweat.

Sam got up and shrugged out of his shirt, snagging a towel on the way. His back protested the movement as he bent down, something inside pulling painfully exactly where Jake's knife had gone in, and he winced slightly. He briefly wondered when it would ever stop hurting—in more ways then one—but somehow, he had gotten used to the ever-present ache and so he just dismissed it.

Which was why he didn't notice the long, thin scratches that now ran in parallel lines next to the welted scar left by Jake's knife.

-o-

Something was at the door. Dean snapped awake almost instantly, one hand going to the knife under his pillow. He slowly slid open his eyes and tried to orient himself. Unfamiliar bed right next to another empty bed, no Sam, early morning… Uhm, yeah, been there, done that.

He didn't move, listening into the semi-darkness of the room until he could hear the familiar footsteps of his brother. Only then did Dean release the grip on his knife and turn slowly onto his back, squinting up at the blurry form of his sibling. Sam was carrying two brown paper bags and a second later the glorious smell of fresh coffee woke Dean all the way, clearing his sight completely.

Sam was grinning sheepishly at him, holding out a coffee like a peace offering. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you…"

Dean cleared his throat and accepted the steaming cup, taking a small sip as he studied his brother's face for a moment. He already knew the answer to his question before he had formed the words in his still half-asleep brain. "You up all night?"

Sam handed him one of the bags and sat down onto his own bed, peering into his bag, then closing it with a small sigh. "Most of it…" he mumbled absentmindedly.

Dean dug out his own sandwich—his favourite he noted with a content smile—then studied his brother while taking a big bite out of it. "You okay there, Sammy?"

"Yep."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

He gave Sam a long look, but then went back to eating, once again knowing the answer before the words made it out of his mouth. "So? You do any research last night?"

Sam scratched the back of his neck, then cast a look at the still running laptop sitting on the desk. "Some. I can't figure this out, Dean…" He rose and wandered over to the small machine, scrolling through something as he listed the facts. "The factory was built in 1876, making field tiles for drainage systems. There wasn't anything special about it, typical factory for the day, like long hours, hard work, deplorable conditions… the usual, you know? Nothing _at all_ stands out to make it special…"

Sam huffed out a frustrated breath and looked over at him, watching as Dean attacked his sandwich.

"So why'd it close?" he mumbled out between bites, smirking when Sam wrinkled his nose at his eating manners.

Sam shrugged. "The Depression hit. People just didn't buy field tiles anymore. The place was closed in 1934 and the stories started about a year after that."

Dean nodded, sipping at his coffee to wash down the sandwich. "Kids, right?"

"'The sound of disembodied children playing could often be heard in the empty, echoing old building,'" Sam quoted tiredly. "Always kids, always after dark."

Dean watched how his brother's eyes lost their focus as he stared at the screen, lost in thought. So Sam's research hadn't turned up much useful information, they still had no clue how to solve this case and on top of that his brother was back to spending his nights staying awake instead of getting rest. _Peachy_. Dean took a deep breath and thought about the facts for a moment, then sat up and put his feet on the carpet in front of his bed. "Maybe there was something on that land before the factory? Something to do with kids?"

Sam looked up, tilting his head slightly as he thought about that. "Could be. We could get the original deeds from the county archives, I guess…"

At least now he looked a little more awake. Dean nodded at him and got to his feet, stretching. "Okay, so right after I get a shower we'll work on putting those little brats in their places, get some decent—"

He almost jumped out of his skin when the bathroom door suddenly slammed shut. Hard. Sam was on his feet a mere second later, almost knocking the table with the laptop over in his haste to get to his feet. Both of them stared at the door, arms raised into a defensive position, waiting.

Nothing happened.

"Sam, get the EMF..."

Not taking his eyes of the door, Dean watched out of the corners of his eyes how Sam grabbed his bag from beside his bed and dug through it, finally pulling out the small device. Dean turned back to the door, scanning it.

Still nothing.

Behind him, there was a shrill whine, a sound like an _explosion?_ and suddenly Sam yelped in pain. Something clattered to the floor. Dean spun around to find Sam staring wide-eyed at the broken EMF-detector on the ground. He was cradling his hands to his chest, shaking them out.

"What the hell—you okay?"

Sam's head snapped up at him and he blinked, confused. "Dude, that thing _exploded_ in my hands! That hurt!" he cursed.

Dean eyed the broken device cautiously. "That's not normal…"

Sam looked around the room. "What do you think?"

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I think something followed us home." Keeping his eyes on the bathroom door he slowly made his way towards the door and the windows, though he needn't have checked, the salt-lines they had laid out the night before and the various protective charms were still in place, undisturbed. "Nothing's broken. How did it get in?"

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair as well. "Think we should do a cleansing ritual?"

Before Dean could answer, the lamp on the nightstand slowly started moving, tipped over the end and crashed to the floor where it shattered. He rolled his eyes. "The sooner the better."

-o-

It was the smell that got to Dean, every friggin' time. It wasn't that he didn't like rituals as such, but for most of them, he and Sam had to burn the funniest things for them to work at all. Which meant weird smells all over the place. He wrinkled his nose when Sam burned another small amount of whatever strange herb he had dug out of the back of the Impala and a sickeningly sweet aroma filled the air only seconds later.

Okay, so he really, really didn't like the smell. At all.

Sam winked at him, never skipping a beat in his readings, while he put yet another… _something..._into the bowl in front of him. They had darkened the room as best as they could, lit some special candles and drawn about every protection/cleansing symbol they could think of. They still didn't know what exactly they were trying to banish, so the ritual as such as well as the spell were very vague. But it was the best they could do in that short time and it would have to do.

Dean watched as Sam went through the last lines three times, completely focused on the words, and he could feel himself tense slightly. It was his job to have Sam's back in case _whatever_ decided it didn't want to leave. Most of the time, the creatures they were protecting themselves against didn't want to let them go once they had taken a liking to them and most of them threw a tantrum which often ended in one or both of brothers being thrown about the place.

The closer Sam got to the end without anything at all happening—no weird noises, no lamps crashing to the floor—the more nervous Dean got, his eyes darting around the room.

Nothing happened.

Sam finished the last sentence and looked around, eyeing him anxiously.

"Think it worked?" Dean mumbled softly, not feeling safe enough to loosen his stance.

Sam blinked, twice, then shrugged. "It should have." He slowly got off from where he had been sitting cross-legged on the floor and stretched, working some kinks out of his back. Dean didn't miss the soft hiss of pain he made when he bent the wrong way, but Sam didn't seem too bothered by it, so he let it slide.

"Want to grab some lunch?"

Sam just nodded.

Twenty minutes later, they entered a little greasy spoon and ordered, waiting for their orders in companionable silence. When the waitress set the plates down in front of them, though, Dean saw Sam frown at it, then his brother reached up and rubbed at his eyes.

"Sam?"

Sam blinked and looked up at him. "Huh, sorry, I zoned a bit… I guess…"

Dean frowned, picking up the burger. "More than a bit—"

He couldn't finish his sentence. Suddenly, there was some noise in the background which gradually rose into shouted complaints from the other tables. Dean looked up and around and saw people staring in disgust at their plates. A child started sobbing while her mother called loudly for the waitress. Dean frowned and looked back at his brother, only to find him staring with a similar expression at his own plate.

"What—"

He shouldn't have looked down. The food on Sam's plate, which had been fine just a second ago, was suddenly mouldy and rotted. And when Dean looked down at his own plate he gagged slightly at the foul smell from a rotted burger.

He closed his eyes, counted to ten and heaved a deep sigh. "I guess the ritual didn't work."


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

Days later and things weren't any better.

Sam jerked awake on his bed, wracked again with yet another bad dream.

Bad dream. That was such a … light term for what was happening. Sam's dreams were filled with images of hunger and cold and pain. He dreamed in shades of anger and fear, and woke exhausted and aching from half-remembered beatings that he knew he'd never suffered. He and Dean had talked about it after the first night, and it was pretty obvious to both of them that Sam was getting a nightly tour of the freaking spook's head. Dean had figured Sam was the focus because of the freaky ESP crap, which was yet another reason to hate the damned powers. At least this time he'd managed not to shout when he'd jolted awake. Automatically he glanced over, but Dean slept on, undisturbed. So he had one thing to be thankful for.

So far the ghost had been focusing most of its attention on him. Things fell over for no reason when he was in the room. There were odd noises that seemed to follow him. Food tended to rot when Sam was around, too. Not all of it – not even a lot since the dinner – but enough to be noticeable. It was pretty typical haunting activity for a powerful poltergeist, really. Dean and Sam could both recognize the signs, and these were almost textbook.

And then there were the dreams.

Bad dreams every night. Nightmares. Every time Sam closed his eyes, his head was filled with images of pain and hunger and desperation. And a desperate loneliness that felt so deep that he would drown in it. He was waiting… for someone….

Sam shuddered, shaking the lingering sensations off. It was almost a classic haunting. His father would be appalled at how a spook was running circles around them. And Sam sort of agreed. After three days of this, they were no closer to finding out who the spook was… no closer to getting rid of it.

Some hunters they were.

Sam felt like crap. He was tired and hungry and his back was killing him.

Sam stood, moving more stiffly than he should have been, and stretched. He could feel the now familiar dull ache in his back. He wondered if his mattress was bad, but this felt…less deep than a muscle ache. And it was hotter.

Shower. Showers generally helped him get moving now… and he had no intention of going back to sleep any time soon.

Sam shuffled into the shower, glad Dean wasn't awake to see how bad it was getting.

Two hours later, though, Dean _knew_ how bad it was getting.

Dean was abruptly awakened when the bulb in his bedside lamp exploded, showering him with glass. He leaped from the bed, knife in hand, and pissed as hell.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean demanded, pacing the room. "We've never had a tag-a-long last this long before. It should have either burnt itself out or snapped back to home base days ago."

Sam could only shake his head. He was tired, almost exhausted, and his back was still aching – a constant, hot throb.

"We need to find out who it is," Sam said, trying to focus. "We can't find the remains until we know who it is. And we can't burn them until we find them. Without an identity we can't even use a stronger banishing spell." He rubbed his back.

"Well, what a sterling observation, Captain Obvious," Dean snarked, dropping into his own bed, careful to stay away from the glass. "But we can't even find a reason that place is haunted, let alone who followed us home. We're screwed."

Dean frowned, watching Sam rub at his back. "You okay? You don't look so hot."

Sam shook his head. "I'm fine. Just… running tired."

Suddenly Sam hissed, and jerked upright, arching his spine just a bit.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Sam said. "Just a Charlie horse."

"That wasn't any damn Charlie horse," Dean snarled, his eyes narrowed. "Don't think I haven't noticed what's going on with you. How you've been favoring your back these last few days. You want to tell me what's wrong?"

Sam sighed. He knew his brother meant well, but he really didn't want to contend with Dean's over-protective nature. He was too tired to deal with Dean right now. "I'm fine, Dean. Really. It's nothing."

Dean swallowed, his eyes darting away. "You're rubbing your back in the same place Jake's knife went in, Sam. Don't tell me nothing's wrong."

Sam felt his blood chill at the words, his hands jerking away from where he'd been unconsciously pushing against the dull ache. He'd been hiding the pain from Dean. Hell, he'd been refusing to deal with it, himself. It was … disturbing, that his _injury_ still pained him. And not just for him. Dean looked unsettled. Sam knew his brother hated talking about that night… though the honest truth was that Sam couldn't remember much of anything about it. Just seeing Dean in the road, and then seeing Dean in the cemetery. And being tired. Bone deep tired.

Not completely unlike what he was feeling now.

"Can I check?"

The almost timidity in Dean's voice caught him, and Sam felt himself turning, offering his back without thought.

He felt Dean lift his shirts, heard him gasp.

"What?"

There was a pause. Then: "Jesus, Sam. Your back is covered in welts. You have bruises and scratches, too. How long has this thing been using you as a whipping boy? And why didn't you tell me?" The last words held a plaintive note.

Sam craned his head, trying to see. "I didn't know it _was_, Dean. I swear. I knew my back was bothering me, but I just thought it was…" Sam stopped, not wanting to stir up unpleasant things.

Dean's jaw clenched. "That it was a leftover from what Jake did to you," he said, finishing Sam's thought.

"…Yeah."

Dean shook his head, dropping Sam's shirts. "This can't go on. We need help."

Sam scoffed, tugging the cloth back into place and folding his arms. "Yeah, well, another hunter can't really help with this, Dean, until they have an ID – which, if we had, we wouldn't need another hunter."

"I don't have another hunter in mind," Dean said.

"Then who…?"

Dean held up a finger, having already pulled out his phone.

Sam could only watch him as he dialed; wondering what was going on in his brother's slippery brain.

-o-

There was a knock on the motel door.

Dean looked up from surfing the web on Sam's computer, catching Sam's eyes as he lay reading on the bed. So far today the blow-dryer, the floor lamp and Sam's cell phone had all died when he touched them. Sam figured that repairing whatever Dean did to his computer would be easier than repairing anything the ghost did to it, and so he had turned the machine over to his bored older brother.

Dean stood up and crossed the room to open the door. Sam didn't fail to notice that he'd closed all the open tabs on the computer before going to the door. Not that it would help him much with this guest.

Dean pulled open the door to find Missouri Mosley waiting on the other side. She scowled at him. "Well, boy, move aside so I can get in."

Dean stumbled out of the way as the grand lady swept into the room.

Dean arched a brow at her while Sam smirked.

"That's for coming so quick, Missouri," Dean started, but Missouri just gave him a disgusted look.

"I wish I'd come about two hours later. Then you wouldn't still be thinking about what you were watching on that computer screen. All those Asian girls are airbrushed, you know."

Dean paled and blushed, and Sam had to bite his lip to not laugh.

"How did you get here so fast, anyway?"

"It's called a plane," she said, looking around the room. Sam wished he'd straightened up a bit. "You boys should try it sometime. You gonna offer me a chair? Or do I just have to stand here?"

Sam grinned, keeping his back carefully turned, and fetched one of the two chairs for her. She nodded her thanks, seating herself with a delicacy that belied her nature.

"Thanks for dropping everything and rushing to our rescue," Sam said quietly as he stood next to her. "We would have come to you…"

"But you couldn't risk whatever it is tailing you all over creation. I understand." She reached out to pat his hand –

And froze, the look that filled her face had Dean reacting, crossing the room in seconds.

"Oh honey, I'm sorry." Her voice was almost raw.

Sam frowned. "For what?"

She shook her head, refusing to answer. She pulled her hand free of his touch. Dean shared a look with Sam, both of them confused and both of them worried.

"Okay, weirdness," Dean said, trying to shrug it off.

Sam leaned back, giving the older woman the distance she obviously wanted. He swallowed against the familiar wave of rejection and abandonment that welled up and shoved it aside, slightly surprised at himself. That was not like him, and way out of proportion to the exchange. What was going on with him?

"So," Missouri said, looking businesslike. "You boys got a ghost problem."

"Understatement," Sam responded, trying to shake off the lingering foreboding her apology had caused. "This thing's nasty. It's been driving people crazy for years… the ones it doesn't kill at least."

"This thing is driving us nuts, and _we_ know what's going on." Dean said, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. "You can image what it's been doing to the civvies. It's almost classic poltergeist behavior, but we can't find a clue about who it might be."

"So you need a séance," she said.

"So we need a séance," Sam confirmed. "We find out who this is, and then we can stop this whole thing."

Missouri looked between them both, judging. Then she slapped her hands down on her thighs. "So let's get going and cast this spiteful spirit back into hell."

A couple of hours and a trip to the grocery later, and Missouri was set.

The room was dim, the lights – at least the ones that hadn't blown up over the past few days – were off. Missouri was seated at the table. A thin, bright silk scarf had been spread over the tabletop. Nine white candles glittered in a small circle near the center. Dean broke a small loaf of French bread into half and set it inside the wavering ring of light cast by the candles. Behind him, the motel microwave beeped and Sam brought over a bowl of hot tomato soup. It joined the bread at the center of the table.

"Not that I'm complaining," Dean complained, looking dubiously at the food. "But we want the ghost gone. Won't feeding it just mean we'll never get rid of it?"

"That's stray cats, Dean," Sam snapped.

Dean shrugged. "Same principle."

"The food attracts some spirits," Missouri said. "Especially if they died hungry. With what Dean told me about what happened at the dinner, my guess is it died hungry. Now sit down."

The boys sat, Dean looking less than thrilled.

"Join hands," Missouri commanded. "Clear your minds."

Frowning, Dean took Missouri's hand. Taking a deep breath, Sam took Missouri's left hand, and Dean's right, forming an unbroken circle…the third, Sam realized. The candles, the table, and their clasped hands all formed concentric rings, one nested in the next. The offerings of food sat in the center.

Missouri squeezed his hand, and Sam focused, letting his breath out slowly and trying to let his thoughts flow out with it.

"Okay, you little devil," Missouri muttered. "Come see me. Come tell Missouri what your hairy-assed little problem is."

Sam felt it begin – he felt the energy begin to move, from him and toward the psychic, and then around. It almost burned: a dim, pins and needles sensation that prickled at his fingertips and in his chest. The energy began to build in the circle, and Sam watched as Dean shifted uncomfortably.

In the middle of the table a black mass began to form over the food. The little black cloud churned within itself, the light of the candles folding back from it in such a way that made Sam feel almost motion sick. He knew what the mass was: ectoplasm. He'd only seen real ectoplasm twice before. Both times he'd been in the presence of a majorly pissed-off spirit.

"Focus," Missouri reminded them, her voice sounding strained. "He's fighting me. Focus on keeping your walls down. Let it in."

Sam closed his eyes, shutting out the distracting sight of the ectoplasmic cloud. He reminded himself of his job here. Let the walls down, let the energy flow, let it in….

_Pain. Hot agony in his back, in his chest, his legs and arms far too heavy. Cold, iciness, it seeps into him like liquid, filling him, sucking away the heat and the pain, the world becomes dim, and he so frightened… "Sam!" he hears but it's a world away, a lifetime away, and there some else, someone so close and with those eyes, and the fear comes back but without a heart to pound, without a throat to scream and the terror fills him as much as the cold had, pulling him even farther from the life he had, sucking him away, leaving him alone and boundless and aching – _

"Sam!"

– _and there are different eyes now, but just as bright, just as happy to see him, and he fills him like the terror had, once upon a time, a new kind of terror, a new and horribly familiar loss – _

"Dean, get his hand loose! Get him off of me! It's getting into him! It's using him!"

– _he killed him, used him, hurt him, left him alone and cold and bleeding in the dark, and then the dark had just become…complete. Total. Annihilating _everything_ . Except the pain. That he got to keep. That was his. Always. And he couldn't, couldn't leave the pain behind because he needed… needed… and in him it finally found a way, a way to get back, power enough to not _ever_ be used _again_…_

"Sam!"

-o-

Dean felt Sam's hand start to tremble in his own, but missed the significance. Truthfully, his attention was so focused on the swirling mass of ectoplasm that he barely noticed.

The ectoplasm was so weird, so freaky – even in their world – that Dean was more fascinated than worried.

So he missed the signs. He missed the signs that this was going bad and he should have ended it early. He missed it…and Sam paid.

Dean only clued in as he turned to ask Sam what he thought about the black cloud, about what it meant about the haunting.

Sam's head was tilted back, his eyes staring blankly. His shoulders were stiff, and then Dean noticed how much Sam's hand was shaking, and how cold it was.

"Missouri," Dean started tentatively, and then Sam jerked back like he was electrified, the cords standing out on his neck tough he made no sound. "Sam!"

Missouri gasped, and Dean felt her let go of his other hand, breaking the circle.

It had no effect on Sam, who still strained as if caught in some invisible current.

"What's going on, Missouri? Is he having a seizure?" Dean tried to remove his hand from Sam's clutching grasp, but he was half afraid he'd break his brother's fingers.

"I should have thought of this," Missouri gasped, looked appalled. "Oh, Lord, I should have _thought_!"

"Of what?" Dean stated to demand, but it was too late. The ectoplasm was moving fast, flowing like liquid, churning like a storm cloud under hurricane winds. It surrounded Sam, flowing into him like demonic smoke.

"Oh my good Lord." Missouri whispered hoarsely. "Dean, get his hand loose! Get him off of me! He's pulling my energy and it's getting into him! It's using him!"

The room exploded. Things began flying. Dean jerked his hands free of Sam's grip, just in time to tackle Missouri out of the way when the drawer from the nightstand rattled loose and slammed at her head. It hit the wall behind her with enough force to shatter. Missouri grunted as she hit the ground, but Dean had no time to worry about the older woman as all the electrical outlets blew in a shower of neon sparks and ozone. Beside him, one of the bed spreads burst into flame, a tiny blaze, but hot, and it began spreading rapidly. Dean cursed, scrambling to his feet and turning the coverlet over on itself to smother the flames.

As he beat at the flames, Dean glanced over his shoulder. "Sam! I could use some help here!"

Sam was still sitting at the table, seeming frozen. Or stunned. His hands were laying palm-down on the tabletop. His head was bowed. The whole table was floating about three inches above the floor.

Dean felt an icy fear steal through his body much like the ectoplasmic cloud had slid into his brother. "Sam? Sam! Knock it off, kid!"

Sam's head swung up, and his eyes were wrong: bright and green and childlike… and _furious_.

"Let me go!" There was a double layer to Sam's tone; Sam on the one hand, and a child underneath. It shivered Dean.

"Okay," Dean agreed easily, happily. "Fine! Go!"

But Sam didn't move. And Sam's eyes were still green. Green and _wrong_. "I said: Let me _go!_" The lights in the ceiling exploded.

Dean cursed, ducking. "We aren't keeping you!" he shouted at the thing in his brother. "Knock it off! We have to pay for the damages, you know!" Missouri stirred, coming up to her knees next to him. Dean reached down, hauling her to her feet. "Missouri, what's going on?"

The psychic wasted no time explaining. She pushed past Dean, reaching out and laying her fingers on Sam's forehead. "Get you gone, little boy."

Instantly Sam slumped, and the room quieted. Dean hurried over to the bed, beating out the flames. Sam looked up from his spot on the floor, his eyes wide and appalled. Missouri was panting, staring at him, her expression pained. Dean was just pissed.

"What the hell is going on?"

-o-

Missouri accepted the cup of coffee with a murmured, "Thank you."

Dean saw her hands shaking around the Styrofoam.

Biting back his concern, Dean went over to the now cleared table, handing Sam the second cup. Sam looked fine, now, if horribly embarrassed. Familiar hazel eyes met Dean's as he took the cup.

The room still smelled like burnt polyester and ozone. Dean had hoped it would clear out while he made a food run, but no such luck.

Both Missouri and Sam looked shaky after all the brouhaha. Missouri was still in the chair where Dean had put her after the bungled séance. She had looked contrite, and had stayed quiet as Dean had gotten Sam to his feet and into a seat at the table. Dean had checked them both over, found that they were okay, if pale and shocky, and decided that explanations could wait until after he got them fed. His father had once told him that psychics tended to bottom out their blood sugar when they worked, so Dean hoped the coffee and sandwiches would set them both right again.

Now Dean finished handing out coffee and took a seat on the unscorched bed. He watched as Sam paid a little too much attention to his cup. Dean reached out a foot and kicked him in the shin. Sam's head jerked up.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

Sam rolled his eyes a little. "Yeah. Fine." He scratched at his forearm.

Dean bought that about as much as he bought that Bigfoot existed. Not that Dean blamed Sam for being less than fine. Having a ghost-kid get into his head and throw a full-out temper-tantrum couldn't be pleasant, no matter that Sam had a lot of experience in throwing his own.

Sam scratched his arm again. The skin was getting red.

"Itchy?" Dean asked, mostly to draw Sam's attention to the fact that he was scratching before he tore skin.

Sam glanced down and forcibly folded his arms to stop the motion. "Yeah."

Dean nodded. It was a common side effect of physical contact with a ghost – a bone deep itch that was like a mix of pins-and-needles and stingweed rash. The stronger the spirit – and the longer the contact – the deeper the itch.

Sam scratched at the back of his neck.

"So, Missouri," Dean said, "you want to tell us just what went wrong?"

The woman sighed. She took a big gulp of her coffee, slugging it back like she was taking a shot of courage. Dean felt his stomach tighten and prepared for bad news. Whatever Missouri was about to say, he was fairly sure he wasn't going to like it.

She took a breath and looked at Sam. "When did you die, Sam?"

Sam flinched like he'd been slapped. Dean glared. Neither answered.

Missouri looked between them. "I'm not prying. I know it happened. And I know it was untimely. I know it was unpleasant. And I know that something dragged you back here, and that _that_ was just as untimely and unpleasant."

Sam had hunched over, gaze locked on the table. Dean felt the familiar sweep of impotent rage and unfocused fear rush through him again. His hands clenched.

"He doesn't remember any of that," Dean snapped. "What does it matter, anyway?"

Missouri was sympathetic and implacable. "When you died, Sam…it wasn't your time. You were ripped from this life and that left a tear on your spirit. I could feel it from the second I laid eyes on you. Normally, that kind of tear isn't such a big deal. Spirits can heal, same as the body. In time, it would have healed up. Scared over, maybe; but healed just the same. But you got dragged back. That's a whole 'nother kind of wound. It left you open. And the ghost smelled it on you, Sam. It smelled someone who knew death; someone who had experienced it. It's been trailing you since the night at the factory, and the séance, it just opened you up. And it used those openings to crawl inside you."

Sam had not looked up, not once. Missouri, reached out to touch his hand. "Honey, I'm sorry. I should have realized that you shouldn't sit in the séance. I knew you had been hurt. I should never have let you get that close to the boy."

"Boy," Dean leaped on the word. "So it's a kid? A boy?"

Missouri nodded.

"Great," Dean growled. "The ghost kid gets into his head through the wound, and now has access to Sam's powers." He ran a hand though his hair. "So where is this kid now?"

Missouri looked miserable. "Same place he was," she said, staring at Sam's bowed head.

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Sam's _possessed_?"

For the first time Sam looked up, his eyes dull. "I can feel him. He's…angry, alone, scared. In that order. I can keep him down for now. He's… confused." Sam made a noise that was almost a laugh, "_I'm_ confused."

"You have to keep him down, Sam," Missouri warned. "That child has no ties to your body. He won't care what happens to you."

"What are you saying?" Dean asked.

"If the child pulls too much energy, Sam could die."

"Well, that's just perfect," Dean snapped. "So how do we yank this little bastard out?"

"I can rip the child's spirit free from Sam's; it's not much different than an exorcism, really," Missouri said. "But not without a risk. Sam, you're… tattered, hun. Dying and being brought back, both when it wasn't your time it _tore_ at you. Now that child has wrapped himself up in you, and if I go pulling him free it will only do more damage."

"So how do we shake him?" Dean asked again, glancing nervously at Sam, whose eyes were still locked on the tabletop. He spun his coffee mug around and around and around, and never looked up. His lack of reaction was worrying the hell out of Dean.

"Same way you get rid of any spirit," Missouri answered. "Find out who he is, and destroy the remains. Without a physical link to this plane, he'll have a hard time holding on to Sam. It will be an easy thing to work him free and make him go."

"So who is he?"

Missouri frowned. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Dean demanded, standing. "How do you not know?"

She glared. "It's not like he was talking to me, boy. He was focused on other things. Sam? Did you pick up on anything?"

Sam shook his head, his expression a sort of distant concentration… and vaguely disturbed.

"Sam?"

-o-

It was a good question. Had he picked up on anything? Anything more then just the vague memories and heavy emotions of an angry and hurting child? _Could_ he pick up on who the little boy was? Should be easy enough with the kid stuck in his head, right?

Sam reached in, looking for the child he could feel twisted up in him. He needed to know...who he was, why he was here, why he'd followed them…. How he had died.

He _wanted_ to know.

And he could feel it…his own death, the _pain of it, the cold – a different pain – a different cold –wet mud under his knees and he's lost, alone and needs him, he needs his – he needs her, needs his sister, she promised, she promised that she'd take care of him, that she'd always – always come for him, that's why he's not surprised to see Dean on the road…relieved, but not surprised, because Dean will always come, always be – there, she has to be there, with the others, they're all waiting, they need him to do his job, need him to free them, needed him to get them away from _him_…_

"Sam!"

Sam snapped back to the too-warm motel room with Dean shaking him. Dean looked white.

"Sorry." Sam said, pushing away and rubbing his face. "Sorry."

"What was that?" Dean asked, his voice angry.

Sam sighed. "The kid. I was trying to find out who he was. But I didn't get anything specific." Nothing more than the images – the sensation – of dying. Sam shuddered.

Missouri gave Sam a significant look, but Dean missed it. Thankfully. He didn't want to even try and explain to his brother how dying had felt.

"So what do we do now?" Dean demanded tiredly.

Missouri shrugged, and Sam could feel her weighing him. "We could have Sam let the boy come forward, use the information he provides."

"No!" Sam repelled the idea immediately. "No way. That boy used my powers! He set the room on _fire_! Do you know what I can do? Because I don't! Do you really want to turn this thing loose with those abilities? He could kill somebody!" Sam wrapped his shaky hands around his cooling coffee, struggling to control himself. He could feel the fear nipping at him, and the anger. They were old and familiar sensations, fear and anger that something was using him, that something was controlling him. It was a terror that he lived with daily, and one that he knew how to deal with. He _wouldn't_ be used. Not _ever_. He pulled in a breath, meeting Dean's eyes. "Look, I'll try to communicate with him again, if you want; but I'm not letting him come forward if I can help it."

Dean hesitated… then spoke. "We don't know that. Maybe the ghost has his own powers. Maybe it's just normal poltergeist crap. We can fight that, Sam."

"Either way, he set the room on fire, Dean. On _fire_. He could kill someone. I can't live with that possibility. I just can't. No more, not _ever_. I told you that. We'll just have to figure this out without the kid."

Missouri sighed, getting up to lay a hand on Sam's shoulder. Her eyes were kindly, but her voice was like steel when she spoke. "You might not have a choice, Sam."


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

After a few days, Sam was way passed being done with this possession thing. It had gotten old really, really fast. Absently he scratched at his neck – already so raw that he didn't even feel it when it started to bleed a little.

Sam sighed, watching without seeing as Dean hurried through his morning routine. Missouri had taken a room about three doors down from them, and she was over every day. Dean tried to be clean and deodorized before she hit the door. And she came early every morning, to check on them and to try and help. Not that she had much to offer. Between the kid's not speaking and Sam's refusal to let him come forward, they were at a stalemate. The ghost was wrapped up firmly in Sam's head, and Sam was rapidly loosing his mind.

It had quickly become clear to Sam that he could control the ghost to a certain extent…reacting and pushing him back when he became too active – but it was extremely irritating, not to mention draining. Sam was running tired, fighting the ghost's constant childish impulses on one hand, and the memories on the other.

Sam was relentlessly flashing on the boy's memories… and his own. He could feel the knife sink into his flesh. He could feel the cold, almost electric pulse as it caught on his spine. The cold mud under his knees, the icy air on his face. He knew what it had felt like to experience his life flowing out of him into the dark mud of a haunted town. He remembered his death.

And now he 'remembered' another death, too. The hot tear of a leather belt cutting across his back. The heat of a fever, the burning pain of an empty belly, and the hot throb of an overused body. The memories merged and mingled in uneasy feelings of being powerless and lost, and _needing_ so badly. The boy's anger was all confused with Sam's own… their memories had become so mixed up that Sam didn't really remember which ones were his anymore.

Every night Sam died. Cold or hot, it didn't mater; it always ended the same way.

The end result was that he couldn't rest. The ghost was always fighting for control when they were awake, and when Sam slept, the uneasy memories kept him from ever truly resting. Sam was worn out… and when he was exhausted the ghost could take over.

It had happened twice already. Sam had just been too tired to keep the boy down and he'd exploded. The first time, the boy had broken every piece of glass in the room; the second he'd attacked Dean with a knife.

Dean had been on the other side of the room brushing his teeth – carefully not looking at the shattered mirror above the sink – with his back to Sam. Stressed after a night of bad dreams and tired to the point of being dizzy, Sam had slipped, just for a moment, just for a heartbeat – but it was more than enough. The boy had become instantly dominant, and had picked up the knife from the nightstand, intent on stabbing it into Dean's back. Wanting nothing more than to _get away, to escape his captor, escape the Boss, and if this was the way to do it, he would. _

The boy had been so focused on stabbing Dean, imagining it so completely, that it called on Sam's own memories of being stabbed and he felt it all over again, felt the sharp, bitter pain of it – and that would _never_ happen to Dean. _Never_.

Sam's response had been instant and emotional. _Brother_. The emotion of it had shocked the boy, and Sam had wrestled control back from him almost instantly. As far as Sam knew, Dean had no idea that his own brother had been standing behind him with a knife, ready to strike.

The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds. That fast, Sam had almost committed the one act that he would happily send himself to Hell for. The one thing he would never forgive himself for.

Sam had carefully set the knife down and left the room, ignoring Dean's startled and foamy, "What?"

Missouri had been standing in the door, obviously coming from her own room. She stared at Sam, openly shocked, as he pushed past her.

The whole thing had left Sam shaken, both physically and emotionally. It was still making his gut churn, even hours later.

This had to stop. It had to stop now.

But Sam couldn't see any way out.

Biting back the wave of hopeless desperation, he had retreated to the front walk of the motel for the past couple of hours while Missouri was in the room with Dean. The walk was as far as Sam could get from both of them. He wasn't allowed to leave – he couldn't even make the food runs because there was no telling what would happen if the starveling boy in his head got anywhere near a McDonalds – but he needed some air. He needed some space.

He had almost killed his brother. Again.

Sam sucked in a ragged breath, fighting the burn in his sinuses, trying to keep himself under control. It was all about the control. He had to stay in control.

_I know what you're going through, and it's not fair. It's really not. And I know you don't mean to, but you're hurting people...and I can't let you do that._ Sam told the boy in his head. The kid only growled at him.

He winced as the room door opened behind him, hastily wiping at his face.

He heard the soft jingle that was Missouri walking, her charms and bangles clashing with her movement. He fought against the cringe that wanted to get loose, knowing he was being watched, knowing he was being judged. It made him feel like a kid again, powerless and voiceless, and never good enough.

The little boy in his head turned over.

It was a relief when Missouri finally spoke.

"I saw," she said.

Sam kept his mouth shut, not knowing how to respond. He'd almost gone after his own brother with a knife. Almost done _that_ to him. What was there to say?

"You can't keep this up forever," she said softly, but not unkindly. "Keeping the boy down."

"I can try."

"I saw some of what you went through during the séance, Sam. We were so connected, you and the spirit – like calling to like, as I called him forth. I couldn't help but to see some of your memories as they came in," she sounded apologetic. "And I know why you won't let the boy in."

Sam stiffened. "Because he'll hurt someone. I think he's proved that already."

Missouri leaned against the rail next to him, catching his eye. "It's because you're afraid _you'll_ hurt someone."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I am. I _might_ hurt someone, Missouri. And I can't. I can't live with that. I won't! I don't care if the kid gets stuck in here forever," he tapped his head.

"You're afraid, Sam. Afraid of the boy, afraid of yourself. You're afraid that when the demon brought you back, you came back wrong. That he twisted you."

"He did," Sam said, just as surprised at the words as Missouri looked. Dean had told Missouri about the Devil's Gate, and she'd made her own assumptions. Assumptions that weren't far from Sam's own, at this point. "He brought me back, Missouri. A demon. What am I? What kind of evil lives in me that a _demon_ resurrects me?"

Missouri shook her head. "Sam, what you are, your abilities… they might be what attracted the demon, but they don't make you evil."

"Maybe," Sam said…but it wasn't enough. It was so far from enough. "But maybe they _do_. I mean, why else would the demon want me? Why else would he have killed my mother, killed Jess, taken my father…I've killed almost everyone I've ever cared about just by _existing_, Missouri. What is that, if it's not evil?"

"Fate," she answered, her eyes shining with tears. "You were born special, and being special is often as much a curse as it is a gift. I _know_."

"Special," he sneered. He turned away from her. "I should have stayed dead. It felt…right."

"_Dead _felt right?" Then she grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. She searched his face worriedly. "Dead _felt_ right? I thought you didn't remember being dead."

He pulled his face away. "I think… I think I'm remembering what the boy felt. _After_ he died."

She nodded slowly. "That can happen with a possession." Then shook her head. "But you _feel_ more than that, Sam. I can tell."

Dealing with psychics kind of sucked.

He sighed, staring out over the parking lot. It looked like he felt. Cracked and old and flat and dry. Used up and patched together. He swallowed. "I think I'm remembering what I felt, too."

He heard her breath catch. Was he even scaring her, now? He sensed the careful way she picked her words from her tone. "What _you_ felt?" she asked finally, cautiously.

He looked at her. "After I was murdered."

"You remember being…stabbed?" Dean asked, sounding horrified.

Sam spun, shocked to see Dean leaning against the doorjamb. He was stiff, his arms tightly folded, his body carefully contained. He glanced between Sam and Missouri.

"No. No, not really. It's not really remembering –" Sam started back-peddling, trying to sooth him. He wanted nothing so much as to keep Dean from ever looking like that… from ever looking at him like that.

Dean shook his head, though, a sharp, abrupt movement. "Don't, Sam. Don't play word games. Don't try to distract me. Just tell me… do you really remember…that?"

Sam closed his eyes, fighting the feeling of being trapped. It was so raw, so… _personal_ – he didn't want to go over it and over it, not with Dean, not with anybody. Not even with himself. But he could never deny Dean the truth, not when he asked directly. He couldn't take that look on his brother's face any more than he could take the idea of a knife in his back. He couldn't lie to someone who loved him like that. Sam had felt both enough to know he could never do either to Dean.

Sam nodded miserably. "Yeah," he admitted finally, not meeting Dean's eyes. He was so tired and his head was aching, and he really wished he'd just left the whole subject alone. "At least, I think I do."

"You _think_?"

"It's…confused." His head was really throbbing. The more he talked about this – the more he thought about it – the more the memories threatened. And the more anxious the boy got. "Some of it is the boy… but some of it is me… my memories. I remember you. Standing over my body –"

_Dean, crying, so angry so hurt, so alone, it echoes in Sam, a recognition, a familiar bond so much deeper than he's ever had with anyone – and his sister should come, she should cry over him like that, he needs her to find him, she's all he's ever had – and all he'll have _ever_ had, because his life is over, taken, stolen, used by everyone then tossed like a broken toy left in the street – left to die, left alone, left so hollow and hurting and needy, and hungry, and all he'd ever wanted was to be accepted, to be appreciated, to be loved, and no one ever gave him that now one except his sister, no one – ever needed him like Dean had, everyone had always judged him, doubted him, watched him, holding their suspicions to their hearts like armor, while Dean had just laughed and held _him_ – held him when he cried, when the beatings were so bad, when they were all hungry, when they were all so tired, and she had held him and whispered to him in the dark that it would be okay – and Dean had whispered to his corpse that it would be okay, that he would make it okay, and Sam had to stop him before he did something stupid – and she had _left_, left him with _him_ – and Dean had left, left to do the job, left him in the dark, waiting, like when he was a kid, alone and waiting and scared for him – it was so stupid, thinking she'd come back, no one came back, no one cared, and they had all died, he killed them all, he killed _him_ – and he/Sam had died, and he/Sam were alone and he/Sam were _mad…

-o-

Dean stepped forward as the life, the awareness, seeped from Sam's face. He'd just stopped, mid-sentence, going blank and going pale. Dean frowned, calling softly: "Sam?"

Consciousness flowed back into Sam's eyes… but it wasn't Sam he saw reflected there. His little brother's eyes were green. Bright, glittering green. Dean automatically flinched back.

"Crap. That's not Sam! Missouri, watch it!"

But it was way too late. Not!Sam's eyes flicked at the older woman, and she went flying back, slamming into the side of the motel.

Dean winced at the thud, but stepped sideways, blocking the narrow walk. Not!Sam glanced around, blocked by the wall of the motel on one side, and the old metal railing on the other.

"Move," Not!Sam said, in that odd, double voice – Sam's baritone mixing uneasily with the chirp of a child. It made Dean shiver, that weird mix of innocence and menace.

"I don't think so," Dean said, trying to stay casual, trying to keep the tone light and friendly. The last thing he needed was for the kid to telekinetically launch him over the rail.

"I have to go," Not!Sam said, staring at Dean. "I have to go _right now_."

It was kid-logic. Dean half expected the boy to stamp Sam's foot. Luckily, Dean had lots of experience with a tantrum-throwing Sammy. He held out his hands, "You can go whenever you want, kid, but my brother stays here."

The eyes flared at the words, both in size and in brightness, like they were being lit from within. "Brother? I'm your brother?"

"Sam's my brother," Dean clarified. He wanted that to be perfectly clear. He wasn't going to bond with the thing that could kill Sam. "You're just a little parasite I need to remove."

Not!Sam's head cocked. It stared at him. "Not your brother."

"Nope."

The eyes glittered again, and Dean tensed as a sense of purpose filled that oddly bright gaze. "You don't care… nobody cares. I don't care either. Except for her. I'll find her. She's with the others."

Not!Sam started to move, and Dean moved to grab him, but Missouri staggered up from behind.

"No, Dean!" she called. "Don't. This is what we need!"

Dean shifted his weight, ready to fight, and glanced nervously at her over Not!Sam's shoulder. "What?"

"We need information on the ghost, and this is how we get it."

"It's dangerous," Dean countered. "I thought you said that this thing could suck Sam dry?"

"Yes, he could," and there was no give in her tone. "It's dangerous, and not just for Sam. This spirit could kill anyone. But I trust Sam to be able to stop anything too bad from happening. This may be our one shot."

Dean bit his lip, caught between wanting to do what was best for his brother, and hating and fearing the thing in him.

Not!Sam moved toward him, watching him warily, edging toward the stairs.

"Dean!" Missouri snarled.

And Dean gritted his teeth, and moved aside, knowing that he trusted his brother no mater what was trying to use him.

-o-

Not!Sam apparently knew exactly where he was going, even if he was in no hurry to get there.

The thought didn't really comfort Dean as he followed his possessed brother through the back alleys. He'd left Missouri behind with keys to the Impala. He hoped she was okay, he hadn't had much time to check on her before the kid had taken off, but she'd seemed alright. Bruised, but still moving. Still, it would have been almost impossible for her to have kept up with the kid's pace, and Dean had told her he'd call when they reached a destination so she could bring them the car. He hated leaving his baby that way, but when the choice was the Impala or Sam…

He only hesitated a little.

Not that it looked like he was going to be making that call anytime soon. The kid was almost meandering. While Dean fretted every minute and panicked every time he saw another living person on the street – worrying about how much damage the kid could do before Dean could figure out a way to stop him – the kid just wandered, ignoring others, seeming intent on his walk. He obviously knew where he was going, but like most kids, he really didn't seem to care how long it took him to get there.

It was irritating the snot out of Dean. And it was giving them zero information. All Dean wanted was for the kid to spit out his name and the location of his corpse so that they could get rid of him before he killed Sam. But the kid did nothing that gave any sign of who he had been in life.

In fact, Not!Sam stopped only once, his fingers laced into an old fence running around an even older foundation. He stared sadly at the grounds for a long time, in kid terms. Dean mentally marked the site, knowing he needed to find out what building had once stood there. But Dean knew better than to approach; he could almost feel the pressure of the energies gathering around the kid as his mood darkened.

The sun was starting to sink as the kid finally moved on, his stride intent now.

Dean tracked him, and couldn't even pretend to be surprised as they approached the old factory. Dean had figured that the kid would probably end up back here eventually. Ghosts always ended up back at their home base. It was just supernatural rules.

He was a little bewildered when the kid ignored the old building, though. Frowning, Dean followed the kid around the old factory and into the overgrown brush lot behind it.

Great. There were probably ticks everywhere back here. He was going to end up with Lyme disease.

Dean sighed, pushing his way through the weedy tangle that filled the old lot, determined to play this out. Something would have to eventually give them a clue as to the identity of Sam's hitchhiker, and then Dean could stop this train. Until then, he had to follow the kid.

And get Lyme disease.

The kid eventually came to a small hill, oddly clear of scrub trees. Dean hesitated at the edges, watching as Not!Sam wandered the hill, almost sniffing, obviously looking for something.

Suddenly the kid dropped to his knees and started digging. After a few minutes, Dean tried to approach. "Want some help?"

Not!Sam glared at him. "Go _away_!"

The power lash sent him flying, slamming into the ground at the edge of the clearing.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," Dean wheezed eventually. He worked his way back up, wondering if the little bastard was going to turn on him now –

But the kid had already gone back to work, digging through the loose soil of the slope.

Rubbing his bruised chest, Dean pulled out his cell. He dialed Missouri's number, watching the kid.

The psychic answered on the first ring. Dean fought a smile at that, knowing she was worried.

"Hey, Missouri. We're at the old factory on Pike road. Yeah, that's the place. You can go ahead and bring the car." He eyed the slowly growing hole and the focus with which the kid was working. "No hurry, though. I think were going to be here awhile," he added with heavy patience.

-o-

"He's tearing Sam's hands to shreds," Dean muttered. He was laying along the Impala's hood, leaning against the windshield. Normally, he would have torn someone a new one for treating his paint job this way – anyone but Sam, who had staked out this position on the Impala hood when he was, like, eight, and had used it ever since so he was exempt. But it was late, and he was tired and taking Sammy's spot on the Impala was somehow comforting. Not that Dean would ever admit that.

Missouri was sitting sideways in the passenger seat, her legs stretched out in the grass. "It'll be fixable."

"Fixable," Dean growled, making it clear just what he thought about his brother needing 'fixing' after this.

Missouri sighed. "We have to let the boy out if we want to find out who he is," she reminded him. Again.

Dean gritted his teeth and held his temper.

It had been hours. Hours of watching Sam digging. For what, Dean had no idea. The kid wouldn't let anyone near him. He was as possessive over his ever expanding hole as a dog with a bone. A big bone. A bone that was growing every freaking second.

And every one of those seconds had to be shredding more skin off of Sam's hands. Dean suspected that the kid was leaking a little power to help things along, but while that would blunt the majority of the physical damage, it wasn't protecting Sam's skin. Hours ago Dean had tried to give the kid one of the shovels from the trunk, but the response had left him with a shiner. It matched his ribs.

Only a couple of feet deep, the hole was growing ever wider way too fast for someone digging with only their hands, and Dean was pretty much convinced that the kid was cheating, using a little TK.

Question was, was it the poltergeist's powers… or Sam's?

"How long do you think Sam has before he burns out?" Dean asked. Not that he was going to let it go that far. Even if he had to knock Sam out. If it came to that, rock salt shells hurt like a bitch, but they wouldn't kill Sam.

"I'm not sure," Missouri said. "He seems to be holding up for now."

There was a tone in her voice that caught at Dean's attention and he craned around to stare at her through the windshield. "For now?"

Missouri bit her lip, watching Not!Sam dig away. The sun was slowly setting and the air was taking on a decided chill. She shivered, crossing her arms. "He's lasted a lot longer than I would have thought possible, already," she admitted.

Dean swallowed, translating her words and her tone, and not liking the answer. She was worried. And if Missouri was beginning to worry, then Dean was ready to call it off. He sat up, hopping down from the car. "Okay. That's it. Everybody out of the pool."

"Dean," Missouri warned. "We don't know what Sam's capable of. He's strong. He could be fine, and we need –"

"No," Dean cut her off, headed toward the trunk. "No way, Missouri. We are done with this little experiment. Sam's had enough. _I've_ had enough. The kid is just… making mud pies for all we know. We're getting no closer to finding out who this brat is, but Sam _is_ getting closer to burning out. So, no. It's time for this kid to go to bed."

Missouri had the grace to look a little guilty. "You're right. I know it. We need to get Sam back." She looked over the now decimated hillside. "I just… without something to go on, I don't know how to get that boy out of him."

"One thing at a time," Dean said, pulling out the shotgun. "Right now, let's just get Sam back in the driver's seat. We'll worry about ejecting the kid tomorrow."

"Remember when you dropped Sam in the motel? Can you do that again?" Dean asked Missouri, checking the shells to make damned sure they were rock salt and not something lethal.

She took a deep breath. "I can force the spirit into the back of his mind, yes."

"Okay, I'll try to distract him. Be careful."

Dean racked the shotgun as he made his way back toward the hill. He really hoped he wouldn't have to use it. He hoped the Missouri could get close enough to do her little forehead tapping trick. But Not!Sam had been less than receptive to friendly overtures, and Dean was out of patience. If all else failed, the rock salt should not only knock the little bastard out of the way for awhile, but also knock Sam's body down, hopefully long enough for Missouri to do her thing.

Either way, he was getting Sam back _now_.

Dean moved slowly up the freshly tilled slope, Missouri not far behind him. The soil under his feet snapped and popped, like it was full of sticks. Twice, a stone rolled as he stepped. The ground hadn't looked that littered when the kid had started his obsessive digging. Dean glanced down, squinting in the gathering shadows to get a view of what he was stumbling over.

His gorge rose. The 'dirt' that the kid was so meticulously digging out was mostly comprised of small bones and what looked like bits of tiny skulls. That was what had been snapping under Dean's feet as he walked – the bones of children. Children who been buried here; a lot of them, and, from the look of the bone, for a long time.

Confused and appalled, Dean glanced up, seeing a mirrored repulsion in Missouri's face.

"It's a mass grave," she breathed, turning. "It takes the whole hillside. All these children…. Oh, my Lord in heaven…"

"All of us," Not!Sam confirmed in his unnerving voice. It was the first time he'd spoken to them since the motel. He was hunched over near the top of the slope, still scooping away dirt. His tone was almost sing-song. "All of us. We are here, and here we are. All of us."

Dean crept forward. The kid was digging out another grave, one almost at the crest. As he brushed dirt away from the little skull, he started rocking a bit – a motion as old and as primal as the distress that it expressed.

"Here. I'm here. So long. I waited. She said to and I did, I waited. I'm here. I'm always here…"

The kid looked over the hillside he'd so carefully excavated, his eyes darting across the bones like raindrops skittering across glass. He turned broken eyes on Dean. So green and so different from Sam's…but so achingly familiar, too. "But she's not," he said, staring at Dean like he had the answers. "Not here. She's not here. How can she not be here! How can she leave me like this! _HOW CAN SHE NOT BE HERE!"_

The last was a screech of loss, of pain and denial. Sam's body surged to its feet as long scratches appeared in Sam's face and neck, like the kid was clawing him from the inside.

"Hey! Knock it off!" Dean shouted, raising the shotgun. He hesitated, his heart clenching at just the thought of pulling that trigger on Sam, everything in him rebelling at the idea.

The kid ignored him, lost in his own world of rage and pain. He howled like only a child denied could, and the bones around them began to lift and spin, caught in the whirlwind of the kid's temper. The air began to feel hot, too dry and dangerous. A skull slammed in a tree hard enough to be reduced to dust.

But worse were the other cries, distant but growing closer. Other dead children, echoing the kid, responding to his cry.

Coming to join him.

"Dean! Do it!" Missouri shouted, ducking a rock that hurtled past her. "Now! Before he kills one of us!"

Dean shouldered the shotgun, aiming for his brother's chest. "Sorry, Sammy," he muttered, and pulled the trigger.

He felt the kick of it all the way to his soul.

Sam slammed into the ground as the rock salt slammed into him. The wailing stopped as if someone had snapped off a radio. The debris fell from the air in a brief, nasty hailstorm.

As it passed, Dean scrambled over to his brother, who was moaning softly, not completely conscious. His pulse was strong, though, and there was no blood on his shirt. When Dean thumbed back an eyelid, familiar hazel stared back at him.

"Thank god," Dean muttered absently, patting him. "Stay down. I'll be right back."

Missouri came up and nodded that she was okay. Dean moved the few feet away to the last shallow grave the kid had unearthed.

The little body in the hole was incomplete. A broken skull and a torso dressed in rags and held together by emaciated flesh were all that remained. The rest of the bones were either gone or had fallen into the mix of bodies over the slope. Dean bit back his frustration, realizing that there would be no easy salt and burn. Any of the bones on this slope could be the missing parts from the kid… and there was no way he could burn all of them.

Dean grimaced, but then pulled the little body free from the hole. He searched through the clothes. There had to be something, some clue as to who this kid was. They needed his identity now more than ever. There were certain banishing spells that might work, but only if they had a name.

There was a tag sown into the old clothes. Dean had to really squint to make out the smeared and dirty markings. The tag consisted of letters; a professionally stitched IHO – and a set of hand written numbers. It looked like maybe 334, or 384.

"We have a winner," Dean muttered, pocketing the tag. "I think we just found the way to find out who you are, kid," he said to the little body.

Find out who he was… and get him out of Sam.

-o-

Dean drove a groggy but definitely himself again Sammy and a tired, contrite Missouri back to the motel. He hauled Sam inside and dumped him on the bed. Sam was so exhausted he closed his eyes as soon as he hit the sheets.

"I'll get the stuff," Dean said quietly. Sam grunted, not bothering to open his eyes. Dean hoped he'd fall asleep. It would make the next part easier.

"You need some help?" Missouri offered as Dean filled the ice-bucket with warm water.

"No. Sam and I have this down to a routine now." He gathered the water and the first-aid kit next to the bed and started doctoring Sam's mangled hands, relieved to find the damage was mostly superficial. It would hurt, and his hands would be stiff for a while, but they'd heal.

The kid had to have been using a fairly good dose of telekinetics in his digging. That was the only reason Dean could think of that Sam's hands hadn't taken more damage. How was it possible that the kid seemed to have such precise control over the abilities, while Sam seemed almost helpless about them?

Sam hissed as Dean washed out a cut, and Dean focused on what he was doing. Sam winced a couple of times as Dean worked, but otherwise just laid there, seemingly too tired to react much even as Dean picked the dirt and gravel from his raw palms.

Dean slathered both hands in too much Neosporin and wrapped them loosely. Sam finally opened his eyes as Dean tied the last knot. Dean's mouth tightened at the deep, hopeless ache in Sam's gaze.

"So, other than running you around town, digging up the Village of the Damned, and throwing the mother of all hissy-fits, did I do anything else I should know about?"

Dean smiled a little, though it felt a little like a grimace. "You remember what the kid does?"

Sam hissed again, trying, and failing, to work his fingers into a fist. "Most of it. It's kind of dream-like, but I'm always there. It's not like when Meg was in my head. It's…softer. I know it's happening, but it's more like I'm watching it rather than living it."

"Meg a demon?" Missouri asked. When Sam nodded, she shook her head sadly.

"Spirit possessions are different from demonic possessions. Demons totally dominate the host. They crush the inner person. They enjoy it. Spirits tend to find commonalities; they share space even when they come forward. Spirits usually have some sort of business to conduct, some task they need a body to do so they can rest; demons are just joy-riding."

Sam put an arm over his eyes. "So… can we burn the body and evict the little leach yet?"

"When is it ever that easy?" Dean groused, clearing away the mess from tending Sam's hands. "The body was fragmented, dude. It was scattered all over the place."

Sam sighed. "So it won't work."

"It won't work," Dean confirmed. "But the good news is that the bastard gave us a clue."

Sam's arm came down. "Yeah?"

Dean held up the tag. "Oh yeah. Give me a few hours on the 'net, and we should be golden."

Sam started to sit up. "You want me…?"

"No," Missouri ordered. "You need to rest. That boy will be back if you're not careful. And Dean isn't his favorite person, at the moment. If he figures out what Dean's up too, he'll go after him. Get some sleep now, while you can, so you'll have the energy to stop him later. Let Dean do the slogging. For once."

Dean's head shot up and he glared at her. He bit his tongue against the words that wanted to come out.

"Don't you use that language about a lady," she snapped back at him. Then she tipped a wink at Sam. "I'm gonna go get some rest myself. I'm not as spry as I used to be. Good-night, boys."

Dean walked her to the door, and watched to make sure she got into her room down the hall – no matter that he was fuming.

"She drives me nuts," he said to Sam, closing and locking their own door.

Sam just chuckled. Dean had to admit it was almost worth the verbal jabs to see Sam lighten up a little. It had been a dark few months.

Dean sat down at the computer, watching as Sam relaxed.

"You sure you don't want me to do that?" Sam offered.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude, you're already just this side of snoring. I think I can handle a quick trip to Google."

Two hours later, Sam really was snoring as Dean pulled up yet another link. His eyes widened as he read the page – a full scan of a very old historical document stored at the state library. Handwritten, it took awhile to interpret the letters.

But as it became clear, Dean slowly grinned at the screen. "Gotcha."

Then something else caught his eye. "I don't believe it." He pulled up another window and typed in a name. The results made his smile widen.

"I'll be damned."


	4. Chapter 4

PART FOUR

"They're called the 'forgotten children'." Dean sat down at the table, reaching into the cooler. "It's a mystery that the local historians have been working on for years."

"Who are they?" Sam asked. He looked bad today, washed-out and shaky despite the fact that he'd slept until almost eleven. Dean didn't like it. He didn't like his brother having a ghost in his head, he didn't like the freaky powers or the side effects that went with them, and he definitely didn't like how sick Sam looked this morning.

He held the bottle of iced-tea out to Sam, but Sam shook his head. And Dean didn't like that, either.

"They were orphans," Dean responded to Sam's question. "Shipped out from the eastern cities like Boston and New York. Turns out that a ton of them ended up here in Indiana. They were used by the factories here as slave labor before the child-labor laws. The company owners slid the orphanage owners a little cash, and the orphanages gave the factories free rein over how they treated the kids. Win-win."

"For everybody except the kids."

"There is that," Dean opened the bottle of tea, offering it to Missouri. She accepted with a nod.

"Anyway," Dean continued, opening his own. "According to the histories, in between the years 1917 and 1921, over seven hundred orphans _disappeared_ from the books."

"They died?" Missouri asked.

"Officially, they vanished. The historians have been looking for traces of them for years… but no dirt. You should feel proud, Sammy. You uncovered a mass grave that the officials have been searching for, for decades."

"I'm thrilled," Sam muttered, sounding anything but. Dean could see his point.

"How can seven hundred children just disappear?" Missouri asked.

"It's easy if the system used to keep track of them wants it to happen. Everybody was making money off these kids. They brought them in, and then worked them to death. It was in their best interest to keep it quiet. When the kids died, they just buried them in back lot and called it good. That's why there are all the reports of hearing kids in that old factory. They're still playing at night; it was probably the only time they were allowed to play when they were alive, after the factory shut down for the night, and they still are." Dean took a drink from his bottle.

"Would explain the sudden onset schizophrenia too," Sam said. "If they've – if he – has tried to communicate before. When he's awake… I feel schizophrenic. It's hard to tell what I'm seeing and thinking from what he's seeing and thinking."

"Didn't somebody miss them?" Missouri asked, glancing between them. "The children. When they died, didn't anybody notice?"

"Who would?" Dean asked back. "They were orphans. These kids never even had names, officially. That would have been too much information. They listed them by number. Your little hitchhiker was Orphan 334. " Dean said to Sam, taking a pull from his iced-tea. "By the way, how is your little worm this morning?"

"Tired," Sam answered, touching his head. "Disturbed. He saw his own corpse last night. That tends to be a bit…upsetting," he finished lamely.

And Dean had a flash of Sam laying on an old mattress, pale and sunken. Dean had been sitting near, raw, angry…broken. Despair had hung in the room like the smell of decay.

"It's not so pleasant on the other side, either. Believe me," Dean said, shaking his head, trying to clear the sudden memory. "But, whatever. Anyway, I've been thinking."

"Does it hurt? Do you need to lay down? I know the first time can be painful."

Dean tried to glare at Sam as he smirked, but he just couldn't. He was too relieved to hear his little brother in the words and tone. It was good to know his Sammy was still around. "Shut up," Dean snapped, fighting his own grin. "_Anyway_, that field really isn't that big. The rest of the kid's body has to be in that mess somewhere. The kid did all the hard work last night, unearthing the remains. We could salt and burn the whole hill. With all that brush, it'd go up in an hour or two. So I say we go back tonight and torch the body. The kid will be gone and this creep-fest will be over. Finally."

Dean was only half-serious. The blaze would be too thin to burn hot enough to destroy bone, and too large to control properly. Besides, a fire that size would draw the authorities pretty quick. Sam would know all that.

Sam would – but the kid didn't.

Instantly the boy slammed forward, Sam's eyes flicking from calm hazel to bright, frightened green. "No! I can't go! She said stay! She said wait! I'm. Not. _Going_!" It was a shriek, a petulant wail that was punctuated by an invisible kick, a slam of force that hit Dean like a roundhouse and took him off his feet. "And you can't make me!" the kid screamed.

Dean rolled to his feet. "Want to bet?"

Glaring, Dean dropped into a fighter's stance, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. Sam was larger, and arguably stronger, but Dean knew he was more ruthless.

But it wasn't Sam he was facing – it was a kid, scared and angry and lashing out at anyone near. "Just leave me _alone_! Why can't any of you just leave me _alone_!"

Dean was slapped back again, this time he felt the welts in his chest and back. It was like getting hit with a leather whip, and the pain of it sucked the air from his lungs. He dropped to his knees.

"Everybody always pushing me! Ordering me! Hurting me!"

Each phrase was punctuated with another psychic blow, the hot sting of them cutting into Dean.

"I did everything they told me to! I was good! But they hated me anyway! They hurt me anyway! She was the only one who cared about me! And she said to wait on her, that she'd be back! That she'd never leave me!"

Dean panted through the pain of it, watching the kid's approach. Behind him, Dean could see Missouri standing cautiously. She took a step closer, raising her hand. The kid ranted on, unaware.

"No more. It's not going to happen to me any more. I'm stronger than you, now," he hissed with a malicious grin. "You can't hurt me any more. And I'm going to find her! I _have_ to! I can't leave without her. So just get out of my way!"

The last was said as he spun on Missouri. The older woman grunted as she flew back, tossed by unseen hands. She slammed into the wall and slumped, unmoving.

The kid started toward her. "I _told_ you that you can't hurt me anymore," he taunted in a very child-like way. The fear in him had given way to anger and Dean could see the ghost in Sam now, enraged and ready to kill. "You _can't_ stop me."

"Timothy Peter Sheldon!"

The kid froze, eyes widening as he turned to stare at Dean.

"Yeah, I found your name," Dean said, standing. He took a few steps back, toward the door and drawing Timothy's attention away from the downed psychic. "The tag on your clothes…it said IOH. That's the tag for the Indiana Orphan Home. That was the building you stopped at. That old foundation was where it stood. That's where you lived. They marched you from there to the factory every day."

Timothy's eyes glowed. He watched Dean with a stillness that was unnerving and held an undertone of danger. Dean knew he was prodding at the ghost's memories. Pull him one direction, and the ghost would leave on his own: a peaceful dispersion. Push too hard in the wrong way, and he'd snap, becoming a vengeful, killing monster. Dean felt himself begin to sweat. Sam was so much better at this kind of stuff.

"You're wrong," the boy said.

Dean felt a chill. If he got this wrong, Sam could pay the price. "Wrong?"

"It wasn't _every_ day. Not _every_ day. The factory closed on Sunday."

Dean swallowed. It had been said with all the smug arrogance of an angry child. But this kid could kill him without much problem.

"How did you know my name?" the kid asked, coming forward another step.

"The first set of papers they sent with you when you got on the train from New York were in the history archives," Dean answered honestly, sliding back another step. "The number 334 was scrawled in the margins. That was your number, wasn't it?"

The kid's eyes had flared again at the digits. His face settled back into sullenness. "I _hate_ them."

Dean nodded quickly. "Yeah. I bet. They hurt you; they killed you… but they did something even worse, didn't they?" Dean sidled back another step. The door was right behind him. "They took your sister away."

The kid started shaking. "She's said to wait. Wait for her. She'd be back. She'd come get me."

Dean's heart twisted. How many times had Sammy said the same thing about their dad, in the same tone? How many times had he said it about Dean? "Timothy," Dean called softly, "I not only found your name, I found your sister. And you know why she isn't with you? She lived, Timothy. She got adopted out, and she swore she was coming back for you, but you didn't survive. She lived. And she's still alive."

Timothy's eyes glowed again at the words.

"I know where she is," Dean coaxed. "I can take you to her."

Dean could see the kid waver, wanting to attack…and wanting to see his sister.

"I have a little brother, too," Dean said quietly. Calmly. "He's in there. With you. He knows me, and he knows when I'm lying. Ask him if you can trust me."

The kid glared at him for maybe half a second. Dean watched as the eyes flickered- hazel to green to hazel. A moment later, the eyes settled on green again, but it was with a warmer expression. "We can see her? Now?"

"We can," Dean confirmed. He opened the door, reaching in his pocket to fetch out his keys. "We can go right now." Dean kept himself from looking at Missouri. As much as he wanted to check on her, she would be safer if Dean got the kid away from her as soon as possible. The kid had zeroed in on her as a target, and Dean knew there wasn't much he could do to stop the boy if he decided to go after her again.

The ghost's eyes darted between the open door and Dean's face, hesitant. But when Dean took that step across the threshold, the kid followed him.

The half hour drive to the Greenlawn Assisted Living facility was one on the oddest in Dean's experience. The kid just sat in the passenger seat, body stiff, as he stared out the window. He spoke only once, saying, "The train didn't go this fast," in a tone that made Dean's skin crawl.

"Kelly Sheldon-Reese?" Dean asked at the reception desk just inside the door.

The busy receptionist just gestured at a long, brightly lit hall. Dean shrugged and headed that direction, Sam/Timothy trailing him like an overgrown kid. It felt almost normal. Until they came to the large, warm sunlit room at the end of the hall.

The room was empty except for an elderly lady dozing in a lounge chair in the sun. She was so old that she seemed brittle, and Dean hesitated at the doorway, wondering if it was right to bring the kid here at all.

But the kid had no such worries, shoving passed Dean and making a beeline for the woman. There he stood a moment, looking confused, and not a little appalled.

Dean watched as he cautiously reached out, running gentle curious fingers over her withered cheek.

She stirred at the touch, blinking open eyes that were a distinct bright green, the same eyes that had taken over Sam. There could be no doubt that this was Timothy Sheldon's big sister.

She looked up, confused by the tall stranger who stood over her, but not upset. She half-frowned.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice as thin as her hair. "Hold on, just let me get my glasses…"

"Kady?"

It was all he said. And, still half asleep, she shivered so violently that Dean saw it from his place in the door.

"_Timmy_?"

-o-

"Who are you?" the elderly woman gasped, struggling to sit up and fumbling with her glasses, frantic to see them. "Who are you? _How do you know that name_?"

Her voice was rising, and Dean winced, throwing a nervous, guilty glace down the hall before quietly closing the doors to the sunroom.

Dean bit his lip as he approached the two of them. The woman had finally gotten her glasses on, and she was obviously upset by the two strange men who had woken her. Which wasn't exactly surprising, but was a problem. Dean added emotional shock to very old and very frail and got really worried really fast.

"Hey, Timothy, back off of the lady, okay?" Dean said, reaching for his brother's arm. "You're going to give her a heart attack."

Timothy swung Dean's direction, glaring. The power snapped out at him, shoving him down. It wasn't a full attack, but the warning was obvious. Dean wasn't welcome here.

"Who are you two!" the elderly woman demanded, one hand fluttering toward her throat. "How did you do that? What do you want? How did you know that name? _Who are you_?"

"Easy, okay?" Dean said, holding up his hands. "We're friends."

"My ass!" she snarled, glaring. Her eyes glittered. "I don't know who you are, but I'm calling the nurse!"

Timothy glared at her through narrowed, distrustful eyes. "That's not her!" he said to Dean. "That's not Kady. You _lied_!"

The woman had been starting to stand, but now she fell back, her skin going so pale that Dean cringed.

"The only person who ever called me Kady was my, my little brother. He…" Her eyes darted from the bright, green eyes in the young man in front of her, to Dean. Her confusion – her want to believe and her certainty that this could _not_ be happening – was palpable. Dean couldn't help but feel for her… he knew what it felt like to have a dead little brother suddenly standing in front of you, the twist of longing and disbelief that hit like a knife in the gut.

"My little brother," she whispered brokenly. "He had a speech problem. He slurred his ells. He called me…"

"Kady," Dean finished, when she seemed unable. "He called you Kady."

"Nobody knew that. Not after I left the orphanage. I never told anyone about that. It hurt too much to talk about that." She gazed at those green, green eyes. Eyes the same shade as her own.

"Timmy?"

"Kady?" the kid searched the wrinkled face. "Kady? Is that you? You look…icky."

Dean winced, but the old woman laughed. Tears were welling in her eyes, streaming down her face. "It's me," she gasped. "Oh, Timmy. It's me."

She reached for him, her hand stretching toward his face, but he pulled back, frowning. "What happened to you?" he demanded suspiciously.

The hand that had reached for him pulled back and she touched her own cheek. "I got old, Timmy. I grew up and got married and got old. But I never forgot you."

That weird, almost-taste of ozone began to fill the room. Dean shifted nervously, recognizing the feel of the poltergeist getting agitated.

"Yes, you did," Timothy snarled. Old anger boiled; the same rage that had kept him earthbound for so long. "You went away, and you said you'd come back, but you never did. It was so hard there, Kady. It hurt so much. And I _died_. I didn't want to go, I didn't want to leave you all alone. So I stayed. I stayed, and I waited but you never came back. I was all alone, but you never ever came back!"

Tear were rolling down the old woman's face. And Dean felt his own heart ache in sympathy. He'd been there when his brother died, held him as his life faded… but it hadn't made it any better, it hadn't been closure. It had been agony.

The same agony he could see reflected in Kelly's expression right now.

"All I wanted was to be with you," Timothy went on mercilessly, so caught in his own memories and pain he couldn't see what he was doing to his sister. "Why did you leave me there… all alone? What did I do wrong, Kady?"

She sobbed, the sound so hard and so broken that it tore something in Dean's chest. "You didn't do anything wrong, Timmy. Not anything!" Her hand reached again for Timothy, and again he flinched from her touch. She winced like he'd hit her.

"Then why did you leave me?" His voice was as cold as the brick and metal of his factory.

Kelly sobbed again. "I never left you, Timmy. I swear. Don't you remember? Don't you remember when they came and got me? I had no choice. They took me away to be with the new family. I was going to come back and get you! I was going to run away and come get you. But by the time I got back, I couldn't find you. You weren't at the factory. The kids… they said you'd been taken to the field. I couldn't accept it. I moved back here. I never stopped looking for you! Even though I knew I'd never find you, I couldn't let myself stop looking. Never."

She gasped, gulping air. "I knew you were in the field. I knew you were, in my heart. But I couldn't allow it. I couldn't believe that not only had I failed you, had I let you be killed, but that I couldn't even bury you. Couldn't even put you to rest properly.

"You're a part of me, Timmy. Not just flesh and bone, but a part of me like no one else could be. When we lost Mommy and Father, you were all I had to hold on to. When I lost you, I lost what was left of myself. I searched for you for a lifetime, knowing I'd never really find you again."

Kelly was crying openly now, her head bowed, her face in her hands as her frail body shook with her grief.

-o-

"I never gave up," Timothy said, edging closer to her. Sam could feel his restlessness, his anger and betrayal. Sam knew the boy was dangerous, but was helpless to stop him as he hammered his sister, looking for a weak spot, looking for one clue that she was insincere. If he found it, Sam was sure he would tear her apart.

"I never left," Sam heard the boy hiss using his voice. "You said wait, so I waited. And it was such a long time…" There was so much grief in his tone that Sam reeled with it.

"I know," she sobbed, "I'm so sorry, Timmy. So, so sorry. I never meant to leave you like that. I never meant to let anyone hurt you. And I never meant to cause you so much pain by keeping you trapped here for so long."

The kid's lower lip trembled. He bit it. His hands curled into fists. He rocked slightly on his feet, fighting to hold on to his anger, his rage, his bitterness. Those were the things that kept him going. Those were the things that kept him there.

But the sight of his big sister so frail and so shattered undid a lifetime of confusion, anger and fear. Sam's heart went out to the grieving sibling, and Timothy had to follow.

"Don't cry, Kady. I don't want you to cry. I'm sorry…"

And like that, Sam and Timothy separated. The memories of his own death, the stabbing, the pain of it, were dwarfed by the loss afterwards. Of seeing Dean broken. Of seeing himself lifeless. Of the all encompassing sense of loss and loneliness – and he knew that Dean felt the same, and knew that it paled in comparison to his brother's pain, the pain he could see in Kady right now, a pain so huge that flesh couldn't hold it in, that will couldn't hold it back, and it poured out of her like tears… the pain of being the last, being alone.

"I'm sorry," Timothy repeated, now beginning to cry. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

Timmy was gone like the air – leaping from Sam to hug his Kady.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Sam heard it as a whisper, an echo, as the little spirit flung itself free of his flesh and reached for his waiting sister.

He connected with his big sister, after all these years, and she gasped, her tears stopping. Her eyes widened, a slight smile flickering across her features…before they went slack.

The ghost was gone, but the emotions remained, and Sam couldn't stop them. They swamped him, spinning him around and leaving him breathless. He was so dizzy and disorientated that his knees unhinged and he dropped.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean. I never meant to leave you. Never meant to leave you all alone in the dark like that…"

Instantly his brother was there. Strong hands caught him, held him, gave him a place to keep himself steady in the raging dark.

"I'm so _sorry_…"

"Hey," Dean said, gruff and worried and so much of what Sam defined as _home_. "Stop, Sam. This isn't on you. This was done _to_ you. I failed, Sam. Not you. I couldn't keep you safe. You didn't leave me, you were taken. But you're back now. And that's all that we need. All we've ever needed."

Slowly the tidal wave ebbed. The emotions faded away leaving Sam feeling hollow and broken and more than a little embarrassed to be clinging to his brother like a drowning man hanging on to a life preserver.

Not that Dean seemed to be minding.

The emotions faded, but the memories remained. Sam's now and always. From now on he'd not only remember what it was like to die, but to _be_ dead. To be cut off from his family and his life. He never wanted to know that. He never wanted to feel that again. But it was his, a part of him. A part that his brother would never know about.

He hugged Dean just a little tighter. Then reluctantly let go. Dean pulled back slowly, his eyes scared and sad. "Sam? You okay?"

Sam sniffed, trying to smile. That was a loaded question for him right now. Maybe it always would be. He wiped off his face. "Yeah. I'm fine. He's gone."

Sam looked over at Kelly 'Kady' Sheldon, already knowing the aged lady was gone, too. The brother and sister had finally found each other, and went on together. Stiffly, Sam stood, and carefully closed her eyes.

"Be happy."

-o-

"It's amazing how much damage a little poltergeist can do in just under a week," Dean observed, zipping his bag shut.

Sam snorted. "Noisy-spirit, hell. He was a full-out terrorist." He dumped another dustpan of glass into the trash.

"He wasn't that bad," Missouri said, leaning into the open door. They'd left it standing wide to try and air some of the burnt-polyester smell out. Her bag was next to her.

"Oh, he was that bad," Dean argued. "Not that that he didn't have his reasons. But still, the threats to life and property kind of out weighed them."

The psychic still looked tired. Last night, they had gone to the field and sanctified it. And while there hadn't been a full seven-hundred children to deal with, there had been a lot. It had taxed Missouri, and she would be recovering for a few days. From both the cleansing ritual and the lingering bruises. It had been a rough couple of days for the older woman and Sam felt guilty every time he saw the bruise on one side of her face, and the hitch in her gait from what she assured them was only a strained hip. Sam had tried to apologize, but the ex-hunter would have none of it. "I used to get worse going out on a Saturday night, Honey. A little Comfrey and I'll be right as rain."

Still didn't stop Dean from feeling guilty that they had ever pulled the poor woman into all this in the first place.

She smiled at him a little, as if reading his thoughts; which, he realized, she probably was. "My plane leaves in a few hours, boys, so I just thought I'd stop in to say good-bye." She grinned, opening her arms, "So come give me a hug. I won't break."

Dean responded to her open arms and gave her a brief hug. "You sure you don't want us to drive you home?"

She gave him a dirty look. "I know how you drive, boy. I'm safer in the plane."

She turned to Sam, gesturing. He came forward with an embarrassed smile and hugged her too. She leaned over and whispered in his ear. Dean was sure that he wasn't supposed to hear, but he did anyway. _"Trust yourself, Sam. When the time comes you're going to make the right choice."_

Dean hurriedly busied himself with his bag as the psychic turned Sam loose.

Sam walked her to the door. "Good-bye, Missouri. Be safe. And thank you for everything."

She smiled, patting his cheek. "That's my job." A horn blew. "And that's my cab. You boys take care of each other, you hear?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Dean said. "We will."

"Good," She said decisively. And then she was gone.

Dean chuckled. "Why are psychics always so dramatic?"

Sam rolled his eyes, smiling. But the smile was off.

Dean huffed. "Okay. Enough. What is it, Sam?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. The kid was a holy terror… but who could blame him? He wasn't bad, really. He didn't mean to hurt those people. He was just lost and angry and hurt. Used to death by a cruel 'Boss' who left him broken and bleeding, and the only thing he had was the hope that his sister would come for him…save him from that. It's just sad that Kady couldn't get there, you know?"

Shaking his head, Sam shouldered his bag, heading for the car.

Behind him, quietly enough that Sam would never hear it, Dean muttered: "I will, Sam. I'll get there. I always will."

-o-

~end


End file.
